


The Last Time Alone

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Happy ending though, M/M, Masturbation, POV John Watson, Parentlock, Post-The Final Problem, Pre-Slash, or maybe sort of angry wanking?, sad wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 21:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10522110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: But it wasn't enough, not for John. He needed more. He needed someone to hold besides a child, and someone to kiss on the lips and not just the top of the head. He needed sly looks across the dinner table and to know if he put Rosie to bed early he might emerge from her room to find a candle lit and dessert served just for two.





	

The door to Sherlock's flat wasn't locked—John would have to talk to him about that. Again. It was one thing for Sherlock to disregard his own safety, but when Rosie was involved, John wasn't going to let him be careless. Even if no one could get into the building itself without a key, she was nearly walking on her own and it wouldn't be long before she figured out how to open doors.

He pushed open the door, knowing not to announce his arrival too loudly on the off chance that Rosie was asleep. She should've napped three hours ago, immediately after lunch, but John knew from the series of increasingly frustrated texts he'd received that Sherlock hadn't been able to get her to sleep on schedule.

But apparently he had succeeded after all: they were both on the sofa, Sherlock flat on his back, Rosie face down on his chest, both fast asleep. Of course. It was the only surefire way to get her to sleep—she'd always preferred to be held, ever since she was an infant and she'd spent most of her nights in Mary's arms. That hadn't changed now that she was almost a toddler, though at least John managed to get her into her cot most nights.

He closed the door quietly behind him and stepped into the flat, wondering how long she'd been asleep and if he should wake either or both of them up. Rosie would be miserable if she didn't get at least a solid hour of sleep; two would be even better. Best to let her be for now. He felt a tinge of guilt for leaving Sherlock trapped beneath her, though knowing his usual habits he could probably use the sleep as well. If they weren't up in another thirty minutes or so, John would wake them. In the meantime he could try to find something halfway edible in the kitchen and make them all some dinner.

He took off his coat and laid it across the back of his old chair, then shivered in the cool air of the room. If he lit a fire it would doubtless disturb either Sherlock or Rosie, but if he felt cold then they were likely to be even colder, asleep as they were. Sherlock's feet were bare, and Rosie was wearing only a thin romper, though Sherlock's hand spread across her back was probably doing a good job of keeping her warm. Still. They should have something to cover them, at least. He pulled the plaid blanket from his chair and crossed the room as soundlessly as he could.

He draped the blanket over them, wanting to tuck it beneath Rosie's arms but not daring to disturb her too much. He settled for pulling it up to her waist, which meant it fell about mid-chest on Sherlock, whose arm twitched as the blanket covered him. John watched his fingers shift on the soft pink fabric of Rosie's romper and was gripped by an unexpected surge of longing, overwhelming and entirely inappropriate for the situation. That was Sherlock's hand. Sherlock, who'd made it abundantly clear that he was not interested in any relationship beyond the friendship they already had. And even if Sherlock had been interested, he was holding a sleeping baby: hardly the time for John to be harboring lustful thoughts toward him.

He took a step away from the sofa and the back of his calf made contact with the edge of the coffee table, spilling several pens and a small notepad to the floor. Shit. The clatter made Rosie squirm atop Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, focused on her. Both his hands moved this time, one sliding up to cradle the back of her head while the other tightened its grip across her back, holding her gently yet firmly in place. The touch soothed her immediately, and Sherlock's eyes drifted closed again. His breathing stayed slow and even enough that John didn't think he'd ever woken fully. 

He stood watching for a moment, watching Sherlock. Watching the rise and fall of his chest beneath Rosie, the tilt of his head and the stretch of his neck, the way the sleeve of his dressing gown had hiked up to expose the bare skin of one wrist and forearm. John squeezed his eyes shut and tried to convince himself to stop thinking about Sherlock's smooth skin and the way the muscles and tendons flexed beneath it when he moved. Or how his hand was large enough to cover Rosie's entire back, and what else he might be able to do with those steady, strong fingers. 

Fuck. John opened his eyes and felt his lips curl in anger at himself and his lack of control. He wasn't supposed to feel like this. Mary was dead and Sherlock's hand was huge and sure but Sherlock wasn't interested in that—he never had been and he wasn’t now. No romantic entanglements, no girlfriend, no boyfriend, no kissing, no sex. John knew that; he knew it. And he thought he'd squashed any desire he'd had for Sherlock years ago, but seeing him sleeping, holding Rosie so confidently in his hands—what was wrong with him? The sight of his daughter asleep on another man's chest was not erotic and should not make him feel like this. It shouldn't send such a burst of need straight to his groin that he started to wonder if he could move Rosie to her travel cot or maybe bring her downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's so he could drag Sherlock down the hall to the bedroom. No. Sherlock wasn't interested, John wasn't ready, and Rosie didn't deserve to be shunted aside and ignored just because her father's libido had made a sudden, unwelcome reappearance.

He bit at his bottom lip to keep himself from making a sound of frustration and turned away from the sofa. Dinner. Yes. He would make dinner, and by the time he was done Sherlock and Rosie would be awake and his own body would be under control once more. He turned and marched through the sitting room and into the kitchen and then, without pausing to reconsider, through the kitchen and into the hall beyond. The loo. Yes. No. He strode past it to the end of the hall and into Sherlock's bedroom.

The room was dim, as it always was by this time of the day, and John made no move to turn on a light. He pushed the door shut behind him, taking care not to let the latch make a noise as it slipped into place. He shouldn't—he blinked his eyes closed and then crossed the few steps to Sherlock's bed. Sherlock's bed. Neatly made, blanket and sheets tucked up precisely against the two pillows. Were the pillows down-filled? They looked soft. He glanced behind him at the closed door, listened for a moment to assure himself that Rosie and Sherlock were still not awake, then licked his lips and committed to the terrible, foolhardy plan that had formed against all his better instincts. Shoes off, don't muss the sheets, just climb on top, and yes, the pillows were filled with down. He stacked them both behind his back, checking their position first so when he was done he could replace them exactly as they'd been.

Now. Yes, he was here in Sherlock's bedroom, on Sherlock's bed, fully dressed and alone, because Sherlock didn't do this sort of thing and John did and he wanted to but he hadn't in a very long time. Not with another person, and lately hardly even with himself, because every time he tried he started to think about Mary and how he had loved her and she had loved him but all they had ever managed to do was mistreat one another until it was too late to make amends. And if that sort of regret wasn't enough to kill a man's passion, then he didn't know what was. But now. Sherlock. Of all the things that might've enticed him, it had to be Sherlock. Of course it did. Everything was always about Sherlock, in the end, wasn't it? He'd even managed to somehow overlook his own beautiful sleeping child in his unrequited lust for Sherlock. God. Why? 

He pulled open his belt and yanked at the button and zip on his trousers, then sat breathing heavily for a moment. He could see the outline of his cock straining against the cotton of his pants and there was still time for him to change his mind but no. He'd made up his mind ages ago, or had his mind made up for him, or something. Something. This was just how it would be. John wanking by himself, thinking of Sherlock, while Sherlock slept unaware in the room down the hall. Nothing ever changed, except now when he thought of Sherlock's fingers they weren't fiddling with a microscope, they were spread across Rosie's back, keeping her safe. Which shouldn't be at all arousing to John and yet it was: his daughter safe in Sherlock's hands, offering her a refuge that John couldn't manage to provide on his own. No one he loved was ever safe, after all. But he loved Rosie and he always would, and he loved Sherlock and he always had, and Sherlock loved Rosie as well, and the thought of that made John's heart clench, made him wish they could form the family he had tried to build with Mary. And they were, they did make a family, the three of them. Sherlock watched Rosie every day and parented her as well as John did, unlocked flat door notwithstanding. Maybe that could be enough, the three of them together, with cases and nappies and walks in the park and arguments over cigarettes hidden on the top shelf of the cabinet. 

But it wasn't enough, not for John. He needed more. He needed someone to hold besides a child, and someone to kiss on the lips and not just the top of the head. He needed sly looks across the dinner table and to know if he put Rosie to bed early he might emerge from her room to find a candle lit and dessert served just for two. But Sherlock couldn't or wouldn't provide any of that, and so John was here in his room without him, putting his hand down his own pants and drawing himself out—this wouldn't take long at all. So much time had passed since he'd last come that he probably could've made himself climax with only his hand, without using his imagination at all. But his imagination insisted on providing a robust fantasy: Sherlock in the room with him, after successfully putting Rosie down for her nap in the cot in the sitting room. He would rub the sleep from his eyes and smile at John, then let the dressing gown fall to the floor. He'd shove at John a bit to get him to slide over on the bed, then slap John's hand away and take over. 

John swallowed a moan and shifted down on the bed a little. He pulled his shirt up out of the way and tightened his hand, setting a brisk pace for himself. Sherlock wouldn't go slowly, not the first time at least. The skin on his fingers would be dry and slightly rough to start, but soon John would be leaking—yes, just like he was now. Sherlock's hand would slip faster and faster, and John would feel his breath on his cheek and catch a faint whiff of old smoke and they could fight about that later but first John would let Sherlock lie on his side next to him and bring him off with an expertise that John had never dared to suspect.

This was—mmm. The details of the fantasy started to blur as John brought himself closer and closer to the edge. A small part of him managed to stay alert, listening for any clue that Sherlock might have woken and seen John's coat on the chair. There was no sign. He would get away with this, would wipe himself up and tuck himself away and go start dinner and Sherlock would never know. Yes. The idea of having such a secret, coupled with the knowledge that he could still be caught, proved to be nearly as erotic as his thoughts about Sherlock in the bed with him. No turning back now, even if the door suddenly opened he wouldn't have been able to stop. That did it, that brief flickering fear of the door creaking open set him off, made his whole body clench and tremble, made him gasp and lean forward as months of pent-up frustration spilled across his stomach.

He opened his eyes and glanced at the door. Still closed. Good. He just needed something to wipe off with. He let go of himself and dug in his right trouser pocket in case there might be a tissue, and then nearly yelped in surprise when the phone he'd never removed from his left pocket buzzed. A text. From Sherlock—no one else shared that sound. What—?

Almost against his own will he extracted the phone, anticipating a scolding from Sherlock, a cutting missive berating him for abandoning his child and his friend to serve his own selfish pleasures. He thumbed on the screen and read the message, then read it again, initial disbelief slowly turning to a hesitant, newborn hope that at least some part of his fantasy might yet come to pass.

_John, there are tissues on the chest of drawers. Next time wake me up. Dinner? –SH_

John let the phone drop onto the bed and carefully stood to grab the box of tissues; as he moved he could hear Rosie begin to cry, followed swiftly by the deep, comforting sound of Sherlock soothing her back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> For some happier parentlock with an older Rosie, try [Chaperones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13742226/chapters/31576644), aka the Disney pretend-relationship fic.
> 
> Come see me on tumblr [MissDavisWrites](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com)


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